Silver Vein: Beneath the City Sleeps Book 1

by Shannon French

  The street outside the Friar’s was quiet, the cobblestones slippery from the rain and coated with mud from the previous foot traffic. It was always the same at this time of night in this area. I approached the large wooden door, which, given the late hour, I’d been expecting to be locked. It wasn’t unusual for Thatcher and his friends to partake in a little lock-in every now and again, where they’d stay behind after closing time and drink until the early hours with Barbara. A large part of me figured she liked the company. She was on her own after all; she had to get lonely.

  It must have been nice for her having someone to look after for a few days, even if she complained about Thatch being difficult. I reckon secretly she enjoyed it.

  The heavy door shifted open with a deafening creak and the sound of the roaring open fire in the corner and the scent of stale ale and burnt onions filled my nostrils.

  The music was on in the background, some old sea shanty I didn’t recognize but felt as though I’d heard a thousand times. Yet there was no chatter, no raucous laughter, or clatter of glasses on the sticky tables. Barbara’s husky voice wasn’t shouting orders from behind the bar and Thatcher’s friends weren’t taking the piss out of him for trying to play pool when he was half cut. My eyes remained drawn to the dull maroon carpet, matted with years of cigarette smoke and alcohol. I didn’t want to look up. I didn’t want to. I didn’t need to.

  The smell of the ale and the burnt onions was fading and the sea shanty had quietened, being taken over by the racing of my pounding heart. The familiarity of the pub on the corner I’d grown up with was gone. My eyes clenched shut, tears streamed from between them while bile rose in my throat. Instinctively I walked forward, the slow steps turning to strides when Thatcher came into view.

  His long grey hair was still tied up at the back of his head, untidy and matted as it always was. His face was unmarked, which I was grateful for. His body was still and drenched, soaked in blood and pulled to crimson ribbons as though he’d been nothing more than a silk blouse. Torn to shreds until he was no more. Blood dripped from the wheelchair and pooled around him. It soaked through my jeans and congealed in between my fingers as I did my best to put him back together again. He had buttons missing from his shirt. It was a fresh shirt, which I found strange because he didn’t often make an effort when he came to the Friar’s.

  Despite all of his complaining, perhaps he had enjoyed Barbara’s company after all.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The fire eventually died down and the blood on my hands and face started to dry and crust. I knew I had to leave, but no part of me wanted to. I wanted to stay, my arms wrapped around Thatcher’s neck, like a child clinging to her father. If I was holding him, keeping him warm and together—then he was still here. He would stay here with me and he would live forever.

  It wasn’t only Thatch. Barbara lay strewn nearby on the floor, her throat open and gaping. Her eyes stared at me, lifelessly pleading as though asking why I wasn’t here, why I didn’t stop it or why I started it in the first place. The others, all huddled around the table with half drunk pints and measures of whiskey still in front of them, were killed quickly and cleanly. I didn’t care to examine how, I just knew they weren’t the message. Thatcher was.

  The weeping started again as I buried my face in Thatcher’s shoulders, drawing myself closer until I was blind to the surrounding chaos. I was buried so deeply in my grief that I almost didn’t notice the gate as it opened in front of the fire.

  “You must go,” a voice I couldn’t bring myself to recognise, ordered, but I didn’t look up. Instead, I gripped onto Thatch tighter. “Unless you want to end up in handcuffs, you have to get out of here.”

  Rage boiled my blood and finally, my eyes opened over the top of Thatcher’s blood-stained shoulder. “You could have stopped this.”

  Gabriel was unaffected by my sour tone. “Go. Now.”

  “I won’t leave him!” I screamed, loud enough for anyone in the street to hear me. “I will kill you for this! Fucking Guardians, who are you guarding? Yourselves? You have humans doing your dirty work, keeping your precious balance, but you won’t step in to help them when they need it?” The fury was making my vision darken. I barely noticed when Gabriel’s eyes turned that terrifying shade of white and his glorious wings spread out behind him.

  “You have no idea who you are talking to, child.” Gabriel’s voice was so deathly low that had I not been so consumed by grief and fury, I might have shuddered. Not now, not covered in Thatcher’s blood, not surrounded by innocent people, dead because of this supernatural shit.

  “I’m talking to the asshole that let my father die for a cause that didn’t give a shit about him or any of the people he was fighting for in the first place,” I hissed, turning my attention back to Thatcher’s cold, empty face, and wide eyes—already glazed over and pale. Only as my vision cleared of tears did I spot the corner of white paper peeking out from the corner of Thatcher’s slightly open mouth. With a wince, I leaned forward.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t save you, sorry I wasn’t better.” Hiding my intentions with a long peck on Thatcher’s icy cheek, I pulled the piece of paper out of his mouth and clasped it in my fist.

  Knowing if I didn’t do it now, I wouldn’t have the strength to do it at all. I pulled out the blade and pricked my finger, making sure I kept the piece of paper always concealed. I didn’t know what blood was mine and what was Thatcher’s, but I swiped it on the ground, anyway.

  “I’m going to have your wings for this, Gabriel,” I threatened. “This is on you.”

  Before I closed my eyes to picture Omen, Gabriel gripped my forearm in his hand and pulled me back to him.

  “I cannot interfere with human life,” he said quietly, his wings receding.

  I scoffed, shaking my head. “No. Not unless it affects you and yours. Then you seem to have no trouble interfering.” With more force than was necessary, I ripped my arm from his grasp.

  Quickly, I brought Omen to the forefront of my mind and swiped the palm of my hand with the blade.

  Within a second I was forcing myself through the gate with a cry, unable to stop the unfathomable pain that jarred in my chest before I collapsed on the ground in the middle of the dancefloor.

  The music stopped moments later, dancers parted and soon enough Mariella was by my side. Onlookers were whispering and muttering between themselves. They looked amused, as though it were a party trick or entertainment of sorts. I guess anything could happen in this place.

  “Quinn?” Xavier called from far away. I couldn’t pinpoint where over the breathless weeping I couldn’t control. Mariella was huddled over me, unsure of what to do with the bloodied female currently taking up much of the nightclub.

  “Quintessa!” Xavier shouted again, closer this time. His arms came crashing around me, embracing me without worrying about the blood. Hastily, he began examining my arms, my torso, lifting my face and looking beneath my hair. It took a minute or two for me to realise that he was looking for injuries.

  “It’s not mine,” I mumbled, unable to look at him. “It’s not mine.”

  The music started up again, and the dancers shifted away from the peculiar, bloodied girl who’d appeared on the dancefloor. Xavier’s arms slipped beneath me, pulling me to his chest as he carried me to the stairs.

  “It’s not my blood,” I said, beneath my breath, so quiet that if it hadn’t been for the whole vampire hearing thing, there was no way Xavier would have heard me.

  “Hush,” Xavier soothed, leading me through to his office and kicking the door closed behind him. In my exhaustion, I barely noticed when he walked us into another room, a bathroom this time, and turned on the shower.

  He sat me down on the marble countertop and slowly peeled my blood-soaked clothes from my trembling body. My eyes remained focused on the wall behind him, unable to concentrate on anything else as the image of seeing Thatcher torn to shreds flashed on a loop through my
mind. Over and over and over, I could see him. How much pain had he felt? An immense amount, I would have imagined.

  Too much.

  “Enough now, I’ve got you,” Xavier whispered, his fingers wiping away the tears that had fallen from eyes without me even noticing.

  With my clothes off, Xavier took off his own and picked me back up. Carefully, he lifted me to him as though I weighed nothing and walked us both into the shower. It was scalding hot, and the burn was a welcome distraction to the thoughts running continuously through my head. Xavier set me down on my unsteady legs, between him and the wall and began brushing through my hair with his fingers with soap and shampoo that smelled just like him. Sandalwood, I think.

  It could have smelled like anything, as long as it would erase the memory of the scent of blood. I watched as the blood mixed with the flow of boiling water, swirling towards the plug and turning a shade of dark pink. It felt as though the water would never run clear.

  Xavier’s large hands ran down my back slowly, lathering soap down each arm, taking time to go between each finger, beneath my fingernails, until every drop of blood was gone. Then we stood there, my head against the cool tiles and my back against his chest. Xavier’s arm wrapped tightly around my waist to keep me upright.

  Without thinking, I reached back, finding him already rock hard and clutching him in my hand. He moved out of my reach and wrapped his palm around my wrist, down so his mouth was next to my ear.

  “No, darling,” he hushed.

  “You asked me to beg,” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes again. I clenched them shut, pressing my face harder into the tiles, too ashamed to look at him. “I’m begging now. Please, Xavier. Please.”

  I listened to him expel a loud, frustrated groan. It tailed off into a growl that was closer to animal than man. Xavier’s lips pressed against the back of my neck, trailing down my back until he reached the bottom of my spine. His hands roughly grabbed my hips and spun me around until he was face to face with my pussy. I hated that tears were still falling from my eyes, hated that my face was simultaneously flushed with despair and lust. I averted my gaze and looked up at the steam wafting towards the ceiling, unable to cope with the man between my thighs with the mess of dark, wet waves and bright blue eyes. The one who looked as though he were about to sit down to a five-course dinner and he’d been starved for weeks in preparation.

  “Look at me, Quintessa,” Xavier mewed, his cool breath a stark contrast to the burning water of the shower that was still pounding down against my breasts.

  I shook my head, clasping a hand over my eyes.

  He placed a chaste kiss against my folds, and my knees buckled. “Do as you are told, please. Look at me,” he repeated calmly.

  “I can’t,” I replied, my voice breaking.

  Xavier’s voice darkened this time, deepening to a point where it made me tremble with anticipation. “You can. And you will. Now look at me, I won’t tell you again.”

  As he asked, I removed the hand from my face and looked down. He was kneeling there at the bottom of the shower, water cascading over his broad shoulders and his dark hair hanging loosely in waves over his forehead. He looked younger, like this, boyish even. Although even with the high temperature of the water there was no flush to his cheeks or pink tint on his skin, he was as pale and statuesque as ever.

  It was all he wanted, all he needed. The small, gentle kisses he’d been placing on my stomach and folds continued until, slowly, his fingers toyed with my lips. Gently, he eased one digit inside, his thumb rhythmically rubbing soothing circles around my clit, causing my hips to sway in time with him.

  “Eyes on mine, Quintessa,” he said, leaning forward and replacing his thumb with his mouth. Softly as first, delicate kisses where his tongue swiped across my sensitive bud, yet still it caused me to whimper. My body was begging him for more before he’d even started. I needed more. Yet every time my eyes left his, he stopped.

  “Eyes,” he demanded, the soft, boyish charm turning to something far darker. Only when I obeyed did he resume his actions, giving me everything I needed and more.

  Another finger slipped inside, pumping quicker and curling inside, massaging my walls with each thrust while his mouth sucked on my clit and his tongue soothed with long strokes.

  Then he’d move away, leaving me breathless and too close to climax to cope with the distance. “Look. At. Me.” The growl was rattling and terrifying, the grip he had on my hip tightening to the point I knew it would bruise or break skin, I didn’t care, only nodded and did all I could to keep my eyes on his as he stared up and me and feasted on my flesh like a wild animal.

  As he pulled me into his mouth one last time, quickening the pulse of his fingers in time with the suction and roll of his tongue did I notice the fire in his eyes—the excitement, the thrill. That was what pushed me over the edge. My orgasm consumed me. My legs dropped beneath my weight and Xavier caught me between his chest and the wall, never stopping his attack on my clit, as a climax so strong rattled my bones and shot electricity through me. I convulsed, thrashing against his mouth, begging for more but praying he’d stop, fearful that if he kept going the feeling would never end, yet terrified it would.

  Silently, he pulled his fingers from inside me, his tongue still lavishing attention on my sensitive clit, and reached up. Xavier slipped the two fingers inside my mouth and pulled my face back to his. I sucked on the two fingers, tasting myself while he made sure my eyes connected with his hungry gaze. He lapped and sucked at my clit and entrance until I was weeping and moaning his name, another orgasm crashing down so hard I was forced to bite down on his fingers to stop myself from screaming.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Xavier wrapped me up in a large, soft towel before carrying me through to his office. It was unusually warm in the room, and I briefly wondered if maybe he’d turned the heating up—more likely he’d had someone else do it. It didn’t matter, because I was grateful. The hot water had left my skin overly sensitive to the rush of cold air away from the steam in the bathroom and Xavier’s characteristically typical cold skin didn’t help. That didn’t stop me from clinging to him like a child, though.

  I remained wrapped around him as he sat down on the large sofa opposite his desk. He bundled me into his lap and hugged me closer, placing a swift, almost unnoticeable kiss against the top of my head.

  “Thatcher’s dead,” I whispered into his bare chest, my eyes closed and void of any more tears. There was nothing left for me to do, no more crying to do. The pain had swallowed me up and despite the few moments of relief I’d got from my time spent with Xavier in the shower, everything had come flooding back to me far too fast. The images were the worst. They didn’t look real. As though my mind were filling in the blanks, my eyes could not comprehend. Had I really been able to smell all that thick, metallic blood? Was Thatcher’s chest and stomach ripped into tangles of skin and flesh? Was I imagining this as more of a nightmare than it truly was?

  Not possible. It felt all too real.

  “I presumed,” Xavier replied, his hand running in soothing patterns across my naked shoulders. “We had warning from the Guardian’s to stay out of the situation with the Silver’s, at least for now.”

  I pulled back from Xavier’s grasp to look at him. His dark hair was still damp and messy from the shower, droplets falling from the unruly waves onto his broad shoulders. His eyes met mine with an intensity I recognised all too well. Not only had he been warned, but that warning stretched to me, too. That was why Gabriel had come to the Friar’s in the first place. He’d followed me through the gate I’d opened—if that was even possible. Who knew? At this point, I didn’t know which way was up and which was down.

  “I don’t want you dealing with this tonight, Quinn,” Xavier added with an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been through enough of this bullshit.”

  “No,” I snapped, tugging my towel tighter around me. “By Guardians, do you mean Gabriel?” The question didn’t seem t
o sit well with Xavier, and his expression changed into something far closer to rage than the soft, boyish understanding he’d shown moments ago. It seemed he felt just the same about that winged asshole as I did.

  “Gabriel’s powerful. As much as I hate to admit it, I have little choice but to listen to him,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “How do you know about Gabriel?”

  I ignored Xavier’s suspicion and abruptly changed the subject. “The police were at my flat. That’s why I went to find Thatch. There were some things in the office I needed to clear out before they started their search. I had to warn him. Give him a heads up.” My voice drifted off as the flashbacks started yet again. I scrunched my eyes closed as I tried to clear my mind and focus my thoughts as best I could. Xavier’s hand gripped my thigh, as though encouraging me to continue.

  “They think I’ve voided my PI license or something stupid. It doesn’t seem important now,” I laughed solemnly. “But I’m willing to bet that once they find a pub full of dead people, including Thatcher, I’m going to be in a lot more trouble than I was a few hours ago.”

  “That’s not an issue.” Xavier shook his head, as though the subject wasn’t of interest to him. Instead, he tilted his head. “My previous question, Quintessa.”

  I groaned, already knowing I wasn’t getting out of this one so easily. “Miranda, Thatcher’s friend who works for the Guardian’s, took me to meet with Gabriel after I left here yesterday. I ended up sitting outside his office for most of the conversation. He didn’t seem to like me very much.”

  Xavier chuckled. “That’s my girl.” His hand lifted, and he stroked back a strand of wet hair and brushed it behind my ear with the kind of endearing care I didn’t expect from him.

  “What happened to my things? I had a bag,” I began, but Xavier silenced me.